


Merlot

by Itsallfine



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 25 Days of Fic-mas, Blow Jobs, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Explicit chapter is clearly marked and easily skippable, First Kiss, First Time, Happy Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining Sherlock, Slow Burn, The rest of the fic is rated T, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-05 00:17:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 14,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5353688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsallfine/pseuds/Itsallfine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Because you’ve been through enough. The both of you have been through so much, and it’s time to just be happy, okay?” she continued, rather more gently. “It’s time. You asked for my help, and I’m giving it. Let yourself be happy, Sherlock Holmes.”</p><p>Sherlock and John work toward becoming something more as they prepare to host the Holmes parents at 221B for the holidays. </p><p>Written for the 25 Days of Fic-Mas 2015 challenge on tumblr. Chapter 16 is the only explicit one and can be easily skipped. The rest of the fic is rated T.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shopping for gifts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [huddersandhiddles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/huddersandhiddles/gifts), [cakepopsforeveryone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakepopsforeveryone/gifts).



> This is a series of connected ficlets written using hudders-and-hiddles' [25 Days of Fic-mas prompts](http://hudders-and-hiddles.tumblr.com/post/134308673979/25-days-of-fic-mas). Chapter titles are the prompts. I'm combining some prompts as necessary, but new chapters should be up every few days, ending around Christmas time. Though these are tumblr ficlets, they do form a cohesive story. This isn't as fleshed out and detailed as my other fics, since it's written quickly and for tumblr, and it will be unbetaed, so please do keep that in mind. The rating will go up later, so please check before reading each installment. 
> 
> These are also being posted each day on my tumblr: [librarylock](http://librarylock.tumblr.com).

Molly Hooper was a woman on a mission, and she refused to be swayed. She had Sherlock Holmes backed into the corner of an adorable sweet shop draped in gauzy fake snow and cheerful twinkling fairy lights, pinned there by the force of her glare. She pressed her lips together into a thin line and stared Sherlock down. 

“You already knew my opinion on this when you texted me this morning, Sherlock. I’m not sure why you thought it would have changed in the past few hours.”

“Because your opinion is _moronic_ ,” Sherlock spat. He pulled his coat tighter around his lanky frame, shoulders rounded in a petulant sulk, and shoved past her and out the door into the chilled evening air. Molly rolled her eyes and jogged after him, blinking against the flurries of fine snowflakes that caught in her eyelashes.

“How about a—” Sherlock started as soon as she caught up, but she cut him off.

“No. Unless you’re going to say a kiss, a card that includes the words ‘I’m in love with you’, or you’re planning to put a bow on your own head, John doesn’t want it, and _I_ don’t want to hear it.”

Sherlock scowled. “All I need is a simple gift to exchange with John on Christmas morning. Something to put in a little box with pretty paper so I can fulfill my social obligation and avoid tiresome glares from my parents. Why do you insist on pressing this pointless issue?”

“Because, Sherlock—”

Molly snagged Sherlock by the crook of his arm and tugged him to a halt. The grumbling, holiday-rushed crowd pressed them against the wall of another glittering shop full of toys and delicate ornaments and a thousand other things Sherlock insisted on studying through the window, rather than meeting Molly’s gaze.

“Because you’ve been through enough. The both of you have been through _so much_ , and it’s time to just be happy, okay?” she continued, rather more gently. “It’s time. You asked for my help, and I’m giving it. Let yourself be happy, Sherlock Holmes.”

Molly took a deep breath and stepped back. “Now,” she said, “why don’t we—”

But Sherlock slipped away into the twilight, and was halfway across the street before she caught sight of him again. He disappeared into the off-license on the corner while Molly got caught at the pedestrian crossing, her lips twisted in a wry smile. That was Sherlock, always dashing about after something or other.

By the time she caught up with him, Sherlock was deep in conversation with a well-dressed woman in front of a full rack of red wines. Molly paused, keeping her distance as she overheard the woman’s questions.

“And it’s for someone… special?” the woman asked, her voice full of suggestion.

Sherlock flushed and cut his eyes away. “Possibly.”

The woman smiled, then carefully lifted a bottle and placed it in Sherlock’s hands. “This merlot is deep and rich. Beautifully seductive color, full-bodied flavor, very warming. It’s a fantastic wine for a special occasion, or… a night in.”

The flush spread to the tips of Sherlock’s ears, and it was all Molly could do to keep from giggling as he nodded silently and requested a second bottle. She sidled up to him at the register and knocked her shoulder against his.

“Good choice,” she murmured.

Sherlock said nothing as he slid his card across the checkout counter, but the corner of his mouth turned up in a tiny, private smile.

“We’ll see,” he said.


	2. Hot Chocolate and Winter Wonderland

The snow was falling in earnest by the time Sherlock returned from his shopping excursion, his cheeks flushed with cold and his hair dusted with fine powdery flakes. A warm, sweet scent filled the entryway of 221 Baker Street as he closed the door behind him, welcoming him home and drawing him upstairs. Inside, John stood before the hob, stirring a pot with a wooden spoon and humming quietly to himself.

“Welcome home,” John said, warmly but without looking, intent on his project.

By way of reply, Sherlock fled into his bedroom, darting past John with all of his feline agility. Something like guilt or embarrassment twisted in his stomach, made him slam the door behind him and shove the wine under the bed like a dirty magazine hidden from a parent. He sat on the floor next to the bed, forearms propped on his knees, waiting for his heart to stop its attempt at flight.

Somehow, having the wine in the same physical location as John had suddenly made the reality of giving it to him, drinking it _with_ him, so much more immediate.

Honestly, there was probably nothing to worry about. It was wine. John would drink it, and would completely fail to observe its significance. He would say thank you, would compliment its characteristics, would appreciate its color without ever applying the word _seductive_ as the woman in the shop had. Things would continue on. Sherlock would _want_. John would remain oblivious.

Fine.

A knock on the bedroom door startled Sherlock from his thoughts. “Sherlock? You okay? Can you come out for a bit?”

Sherlock scrambled to his feet and schooled his features into something less _obvious_ , then cracked open the door. A hand with a cheery red mug pushed through.

“Come on,” John said, waggling the mug as much as he could without spilling. “Come join me. I built a fire, and I just made real hot chocolate from scratch. Try some.”

Sherlock’s throat constricted at the sight of John’s warm, crinkled smile, so he only nodded, taking the mug and following John out into the sitting room. John picked up his own mug and went to stand by the window and, after a moment’s hesitation, Sherlock joined him. He was careful to place himself a comfortable distance away, but John ignored it and shifted closer until their arms brushed with each sip of chocolate. Outside, the fine powdery snow had shifted to fat, wet flakes, falling in a thick rain over the dusted streets.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” John said. “I wonder if we’ll get snow like this for Christmas.” He turned his face up toward Sherlock, as if Sherlock could provide the answers even to such an impossible and changeable thing, and Sherlock’s gaze fell instantly to John’s lips. His mind automatically mapped out the motions necessary to bring their mouths together, the possible actions and reactions, the—

Sherlock dragged his eyes back up to John’s, finding them soft and glowing with _something_ , and Sherlock though of full-bodied flavor on John’s mouth, of seductive red, warmth in his belly, first kisses, and laying John down in front of the fire while a winter wonderland swirled outside their window.

Sherlock took in a shuddering breath and leaned away from John, bracing his forearm against the window. A topic of conversation, something to distract—

“My parents are coming here for Christmas,” Sherlock said, knowing the surprise would knock John off balance. John floundered predictably, his mouth gaping open for a long moment.

“What? To 221B? Where will they…” John paused, failing completely to hide the disappointment and hurt on his face. “I suppose I can call Harry, see if I can visit so your parents can stay in my room and—”

“No,” Sherlock interrupted. “Stay. You have to stay. Mrs. Hudson is spending Christmas with her sister. She already invited my parents to use her flat. Stay here.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock caught the quirk of a small smile at the corner of John’s mouth. “All right, Sherlock. I’ll stay, if you’re sure you want me to.”

Sherlock swallowed, the anticipation of merlot on his tongue. “I do.”


	3. Christmas Cards & Ghosts of Christmas Past

“Sherlock, there’s a card here from your parents,” John called out, shuffling through the day’s mail as he came up from Mrs. Hudson’s flat.

“Boring,” Sherlock said from behind his microscope. “And pointless. They’ll be here in a week. Why send a card with ‘holiday greetings’ when they’ll be here to deliver them in person?”

A faint whiff of cinnamon and nutmeg followed John into the cluttered kitchen—a delivery of Mrs. Hudson’s spiced scones could be expected that afternoon, then, excellent—and a pile of mail dropped unceremoniously next to his left elbow. All but the cheery red envelope that John held back, glimpsed from the corner of Sherlock’s eye. Not that he was looking.

“Well, the envelope has my name on it, too, so I’m opening it,” John declared.

A dry, tearing fight with paper and glue, and the ripped up red envelope fell to the pile of mail. Sure enough, Sherlock glimpsed the precise letters of his mother’s handwriting, front and center: _Sherlock & John_.

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned more heavily against the eyepiece of the microscope, willing his breath to be normal, damn it. It made sense, addressing the envelope that way. They both lived in 221B. They both would be there for Christmas. It didn’t mean anything.

Except he knew his mother. And his mother knew his traitorous heart, knew how it would set to dancing at the sight of their joined names.

It took a moment for the pressure of the silence to break through Sherlock’s internal battle. He looked up in alarm to find John staring at the card, his mouth tight and unhappy. Sherlock stood, came to John’s side to look over his shoulder.

His parents had sent a photo card again, one of their yearly traditions. The two of them stood in their sitting room before the fireplace, arms around each other’s waists, smiling bright for the camera that had undoubtedly been wielded by Mrs. Thompson next door. It was a thoroughly ordinary photo, nothing unusual, other than the frighteningly intelligent woman pictured and the man who managed to put up with her, deceptively clad in horrific Christmas jumpers.

Except the photo was filled with ghosts, lingering in the shadows, behind happy smiles and glistening tinsel. The chair where Mary had sat, awaiting John’s forgiving lies. The false promise of a child, never fulfilled. Another suicide, or as-good-as, a plane, and goodbyes made with every word except the one they really wanted to say.

Sherlock slipped the card from John’s fingers and shoved it to the bottom of the pile of mail.

“John,” he murmured, pulling him from his memories with a hand on his shoulder. John blinked and looked up at him, the painful haze slowly fading from his eyes. Sherlock smiled, just a little, before moving to the door and pulling on his coat.

“Mrs. Hudson leads me to believe that there are certain expectations to be met when hosting Christmas for family. We have only a week to prepare. I hear we’ll be needing a tree and decorations, yes?”

John huffed a tiny, disbelieving laugh and followed Sherlock to the door. “And you’re actually on board for all that this year? In that case, we’ll also be needing groceries for Christmas dinner, crackers, candles, stockings—”

“Don’t push it,” Sherlock said, pasting a scowl on his face. John babbled on about turkey and mini sausages and parsnips, and Sherlock made a mental note and a promise for each one.

_Yes, John, you will have candles and crackers and parsnips and red wine. You will have everything a Christmas should have._

He would give John Watson a Christmas free of ghosts.


	4. Naughty & Nice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm caught up now, so no more 'two posts in one day'. Sorry for cluttering up your inbox, subscribers!

“Do that group over there next, over at the corner table,” John murmured, his warm breath ghosting over the shell of Sherlock’s red-tipped, frozen ears. They’d ducked into the pub to warm up after an unlikely afternoon of preparatory Christmas errands, but the trip had quickly morphed to an exercise in self-control. A delicious shiver danced its way down Sherlock’s spine, pooling low in his belly and taking his mind to decidedly inappropriate places. He cleared his throat and gestured with his chin.

“The man on the end: naughty. You can see the tan of his missing wedding band from here, even in winter. Fake tan _and_ an adulterer. Certainly not nice. The woman next to him: naughty as well. Completely aware that he’s married, and completely committed to taking him home. She’s already slipped her knickers off in the bathroom and keeps hiking her skirt higher.”

John took a long pull from his pint, hiding his wicked smirk behind the rim of his glass. “Is anyone at that table nice?”

Sherlock frowned and studied the remaining three people he could see from his angle. Definitely not the second man. Obvious problems with petty larceny. The woman on the end, though…

Interesting.

Time to lay some groundwork.

“The woman with the dark hair. She’s drinking red wine, an inherently romantic and seductive choice, though that could merely be her preference. But look at her body language. She’s been in love with the red-headed woman beside her for a long time and is finally working up the courage to make a move. She’s recently gotten a better-paying job and thinks that makes her more worthy. She’s either a social worker or a teacher, something where she makes use of her inherently compassionate nature.”

“How could you possibly know about her ‘inherent nature’?” John asked in a way that could have sounded disbelieving but instead came off like _fantastic_.

Sherlock glanced at John out of the corner of his eye and raised his eyebrows. “ _Observe_ , John, the brand of her shoes and handbag. That company donates ten percent of all proceeds to charities that combat animal cruelty.” Sherlock took a sip of his own pint and shrugged. “I also saw her slip a fiver to a homeless man outside on her way in.”

“Oh, come on, now that’s cheating!” John protested. He slid his forearm along the bar so his arm was nearly around Sherlock’s shoulder, sliding closer when the door swung open to admit the icy breeze and flurries. The proximity, the scent of him, the humor and body heat all loosened Sherlock’s tongue more than he would have liked.

“I never claimed to be one of the nice ones,” he said, his voice pitched in a low rumble that he knew had an occasional effect on John. And it worked—a pause, then increased respiration and heart beat, a shift, impossibly closer.

John turned more fully toward Sherlock, his eyes sliding down Sherlock’s face, pausing briefly at his lips before continuing down. “And what about me, Sherlock? Naughty or nice?”

Sherlock took a slow breath in, letting the moment fill with that charge, the buzzing energy that sparked between them more and more frequently of late. The corner of his mouth curled into a tiny smile, and he reached over to touch his glass gently to John’s.

“You, John Watson,” he said, “somehow manage to be the best of both.”


	5. The Nutcracker & Baking

Sherlock tried to tune out John’s voice as he poured over his notes (baking times, brown to white sugar ratios, gluten percentages), but even his best efforts always failed where John was concerned. Especially when John’s voice was being directed at _Sherlock’s mother_ on the other end of the phone.

“I am _not_ calling you Mummy,” John said in a slightly more respectful version of the stern tone he used when putting down one of Sherlock’s nutty ideas. He braced the phone between his ear and shoulder as he used a fork to crimp the edges of raisin-filled biscuits, huffing gentle laughs every so often as Mummy worked her charms on him.

Sherlock studied him out of the corner of his eye as a comment from his mother made John flush and dart his eyes over to Sherlock. John licked his lips in a thoroughly distracting way, as was his habit, halfway between smiling and horrified.

“I’ll, uh… keep that in mind,” he said finally, coughing a bit at either the awkwardness or the faint haze of flour in the air. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. He could _feel_ his mother’s meddling taking effect, making the atmosphere in the flat strange and heavy, so he snatched the phone from John’s shoulder with no mind for his floury hands.

“Stop poisoning John with your interfering nonsense. We’ll see you in a few days, so lovely to talk to you, goodbye now.”

He stabbed the ‘end call’ button with a sticky finger and tossed the phone over his shoulder, where it landed with a soft plop on the sitting room couch. _Meddlesome woman._ John raised an eyebrow at him, but said nothing. Instead, he slipped the tray of raisin-stuffed biscuits into the oven and disappeared into the sitting room. A moment later, familiar strains of music drift into the sweltering kitchen, music that makes Sherlock stand up straighter and automatically shift his feet to first position.

“John?” he called. “What are you doing? We have to start on the ginger biscuits if we’re going to keep on schedule!”

“Just putting on a little mood music, getting into the spirit,” John said as he slipped back into the kitchen. He wiped down his station and started in on the next recipe, glancing at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye every so often.

They worked side-by-side in relative silence for several minutes, with only the music to fill the space between them. Sherlock focused his whole mind on perfect, exacting measurements and the impact of salt on the baking process, while his body focused on the music. Something about the rhythm… muscle memory had his socked feet stepping over to the refrigerator in precise, measured strides, with toes precisely pointed.

Sherlock frowned.

“John, why did you pick this music?”

At that, John’s unaffected facade cracked open with unrestrained mirth. His high-pitched giggle, so at odds with his dangerous side, never failed to make Sherlock lose control of his facial expressions; his eyes crinkled, the corners of his mouth turned up, and his heart leapt wildly in his chest at John laughed and laughed, finally coming to rest his hands on Sherlock’s hips.

His _hips_? John had never touched him like that before, never—

“Your mother told me to put on a particular song from The Nutcracker and watch what happened,” John said between gasps of laughter. “She said you did ballet for years, that you were really good, could have been pro, and that they always made you play Fritz every year even though—”

An unbearably endearing grin interrupted John’s words, and he had to visible force himself to stop smiling so hard so he could continue. “—even though you always rehearsed the Sugar Plum Fairy part, too, because it was the most challenging, and because you thought the girl who always danced it was horrible.”

Sherlock’s cheeks burned, though it was almost entirely due to the unimaginably perfect fit of John’s thumb in the hollow of his hipbone. He remembered the dancing, now. Hadn’t thought of it in years.

“I must have deleted it,” Sherlock said eventually, a bit breathless.

John’s smile shifted; a bit more secretive, a bit more _something_. “Seems like your body hasn’t, though.” He turned away to continue with the ginger biscuits, and Sherlock felt the loss of his touch acutely.

 _Your body_. How delicious those words were in John’s mouth.

Sherlock wondered what kind of wine would go with biscuits, and whether it was too soon for an early Christmas gift.

_Patience._


	6. Christmas List & Scrooge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are all unbetaed and basically unedited, but this one even more so than the others. Sorry!

The case came at the perfect time.

Sherlock had been surprisingly okay with the festive preparations up until the morning of December 22nd. Shopping, baking, and decorating had become sources of closeness with John, opportunities to enjoy a sort of domestic warmth he’d thought beyond him, rather than inventive forms of torture. John’s smiles had come so often, so readily over the past few days that it had been easy to sink into it all and get lost in a well of that Christmas spirit the rest of the world seemed so drunk on.

But he was Sherlock Holmes, and his partner in domestic semi-bliss was ex-army doctor John Watson. They could only stay in and bake cookies for so long.

Fortunately, Lestrade’s Christmas criminal had a sick sense of humor that kept Sherlock was eminently entertained for the better part of twenty-four hours. The obvious connection between the victims was their occupation: all high-level moneylenders and bank executives, four of them. The fun part was the cheerful red ribbon they’d been strangled with and the tiny scraps of paper, carefully cut out of a book and glued to each man’s forehead. They read, simply: “Bah, humbug!”

The case had everything on Sherlock’s Christmas list: locked rooms, unusual crime scenes, a bit of lab work, and a good chase. But best of all: a showy end that let John get his hands dirty.

“Herd him down the next alley on the left, John,” Sherlock said, just loud enough to be heard over their pounding footfalls.

John grunted his acknowledgement and put on a burst of speed, cutting to the right to make that direction a less appealing option for the suspect. Sure enough, the man wavered for a moment, then disappeared down the alley to the left at full tilt.

…and came running back out less than five seconds later with Lestrade hot on his heels. John was waiting for him, a dangerous gleam in his eyes and a wicked set to his mouth.

Sherlock skidded to a stop and watched with a fond smirk as John took the suspect out with a perfect rugby tackle, wrestling him easily to the ground despite his smaller size. John moved with a compact strength, powerful and unyielding, pinning the man so completely that he had no hope of reaching for the knife in his left pocket. It was all too easy to imagine himself in the suspect’s position, being pressed down into the ground by John’s solid frame, held down by hips and hands, that mouth mere inches from his throat, close enough to feel—

He wiped the smirk from his face and fought down a blush as Lestrade caught up with John and the suspect. That was his cue.

“If you’ll check his inside jacket pocket, you should find the copy of _A Christmas Carol_ he’s been cutting the phrases from,” he said, stepping up to John’s side as he backed away from the struggling man. He glanced at John out of the corner of his eye and caught him looking back, then they both looked away, snorting with suppressed inappropriate crime scene giggles.

“How did you identify him, though?” Lestrade asked. “Your last text made no sense; something about an ink splatter?”

“The Ink Spot is the name of a rare books shop,” he said, injecting a healthy dose of disdain into his voice for the benefit of the assembled officers. “An analysis of the cuttings proved they were all taken from the same book, an edition that dated from the late 1800s. Very few places would carry such a book. Could have been purchased online, but I’ve done business with the proprietor of The Ink Spot in years past and figured I’d ask around. Turns out the book had been recently sold by a colleague of his across town. From there it was simple. Credit card records, CCTV. Child’s play.”

“Brilliant,” John breathed, and his lips turned up into that easy, warm smile, right there in the middle of a filthy alleyway, his face painted in flashing police lights and trickling sweat. The smile that meant baking cookies and Sherlock and _home_ , and Sherlock found himself suddenly breathless.

“Don’t suppose I could convince you two to come back to the station and give me a statement before you go dashing off,” Lestrade interrupted, then took a step back, as if sensing he had walked into an awkward moment.

Sherlock turned up his coat collar with a snap and lifted his chin. “Oh, I suppose we could oblige. It is the holidays, after all.”

John snorted, shrugging at Lestrade as if to say, _take what you can get, right?_

“Perfect!” Lestrade said, leading them toward the car. “We should be done just in time for the start of the office Christmas party, too.”

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. “Ah, actually, I’ve just remembered a critical mold experiment that I really—”

“Party sounds lovely, Greg, ta,” John cut in, snagging Sherlock by the elbow and tugging him toward the car. “We’ll sign our statements and pop in for a drink, at least.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but Greg and John picked up the thread of the conversation and ran with it, chattering on about preparations for the party, gift buying, and any number of other festive topics. Sherlock was too lost in the feel of John’s strong hand still around his arm to bother resisting again. He smiled, his own small version of the cookies-John- _home_ smile, and shifted a step closer.

The hand slid from Sherlock’s elbow, traced down his arm, and tucked itself into Sherlock’s own gloved hand for a brief second. A squeeze, then it fell away.

Sherlock suddenly found himself completely in favor of a Christmas party at the Yard.


	7. Mulled Wine, Ugly Christmas Jumpers, and Warming by the Fire: part one

The Officer’s Lounge at New Scotland Yard was the perfect spot for a casual office holiday party. A small kitchen for easy food service, a long countertop that made for a perfect impromptu bar, and a crackling fireplace to set the mood. The atmosphere hummed with good cheer and comforting warmth, enough to forgive the loud clash of brightly-colored Christmas jumpers and overly-loud laughter.

Sherlock contemplated the mulled wine simmering on the small hob, thinking of a different bottle of wine, secreted away under his bed back in 221B. A trial run might be in order. He hadn’t yet considered how to present the wine, how to proceed after it was given. He had only two days left. Two days before everything changed, one way or the other. For better or for worse. Best to test the waters a bit.

Sherlock dipped the ladle into the spiced wine and poured the dark red liquid into two cups, then made his way back to John, his nose full of the mingled scents of cinnamon and clove. A young constable John cornered him near the fireplace where he’d been warming up, but a quick glare from over John’s shoulder sent him scurrying away. John turned to him with a relieved smile and accepted his cup of wine.

“I don’t know if I’m getting old or if it’s just your influence rubbing off on me,” he said, “but I have no patience for starstruck kids anymore.” He drank deeply, eyeing Sherlock over the rim of the cup.

Sherlock took a moment to steady himself, then placed his hand at the small of John’s back and leaned in to be heard over the crowd.

“My good influence, I hope, though perhaps you are growing wiser with the years.”

He pitched his voice low, pressed his hand ever-so-slightly into the softness of John’s jumper, and waited for a reaction. His own heart rate spiked, and his fingers tingled with the warmth of John’s skin beneath his jumper, though he kept his breathing under perfect control—right up until John slid an arm around his waist and drew closer, pressing their bodies together along their flanks. John chuckled warmly, perfectly timed to cover the hitch in Sherlock’s breathing.

“Shockingly, I think you have been a good influence on me. I’m active, I do good for the community, I rarely shoot people, and I’m happy—I’d say that’s an improvement on the 2010 edition of John Watson, for sure.”

“You’re happy?” Sherlock asked, then drank to cover his wince. _Too much, too far, didn’t mean to say that, say something else—_

“Of course!” John sounded almost offended, and his eyebrows echoed the sentiment in their tense furrow. “I… of _course_ I am, Sherlock. Aren’t you?”

Sherlock had to look away, take a sip of his wine to clear the sudden tightness in his throat. “Happier than I thought I would ever have the chance to be in my lifetime,” he finally said.

John tightened his hold on Sherlock’s waist, pulling him in even closer, then drained the last of his wine and stepped away. “I’m going to go get a refill. Want more?”

Sherlock tipped the last of his wine back, then held out his cup to John, meeting his gaze full on.

“More would be… good. Thank you, John.”

John took the cup with a secretive little half-smile, then ducked into the crowd of half-drunk yarders. Sherlock followed him with his eyes, his body still on alert from the press of John’s side against his, the wine warm in his chest and stomach.

They were close. So _unbearably_ close to _more_.

 _Two more days_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Officer’s Lounge is a completely made up thing. I have no idea if such a thing exists. I needed a fireplace, so I made one.
> 
> Tomorrow's chapter will be a direct continuation from this scene, so I rolled tomorrow's prompt in here as well.


	8. Mulled Wine, Ugly Christmas Jumpers, and Warming by the Fire: part two

John had hardly been gone for two full seconds before Lestrade pounced. The DI appeared at Sherlock’s side, beer in hand, and made a show of warming himself by the fire for a brief moment before turning to Sherlock with a twinkle in his eye.

“So,” he said, flicking his gaze over to John’s retreating form. “Is that happening now?”

Sherlock pursed his lips and locked his eyes on the crackling fire. It always hurt when people assumed he and John were together, but now that it looked like there was a chance…?

“No. It’s not. We aren’t,” Sherlock answered, half-surprising himself by actually talking about it. Lestrade’s eyes went wide for a second before he mastered himself, evidently just as surprised as Sherlock. Bolstered, Sherlock took a deep breath and took a leap, ignoring the panic twisting in his stomach.

“I’m going to try, though. At Christmas.”

Lestrade turned more fully toward Sherlock, a blinding smile visible even in his peripheral vision. He couldn’t turn, though, couldn’t meet the smile, couldn’t look this thing head-on yet.

“I’m glad,” Lestrade said, low and fierce. “The two of you deserve it. It’s been a long time coming, though I guess I don’t have to tell you that.”

“It’s been excruciating,” Sherlock said with complete naked honestly. “But he still has to say yes, you know. It’s not… automatic.” He risked a glance up at Lestrade, only to find an incredulous expression waiting for him.

“You must be joking. John is _crazy_ about you, Sherlock. He always has been.”

“It could be _platonic_ crazy,” Sherlock said, voicing his worst fear with a grimace. His fingers twitched in his pocket. _God, I need a cigarette_.

“Could be,” Lestrade said, then edged closer to murmur, “but considering the way he’s staring at your arse right now, I wouldn’t bet on it. Good luck.”

Lestrade clapped him on the shoulder, and Sherlock whirled around just in time to see John’s eyes snap back up to his face, then over to Lestrade’s. The two exchanged pleasantries, laughed heartily about something or other, but Sherlock’s brain was fixated on that single moment, the briefest second where John’s eyes slid up to his face after lingering significantly lower.

It still didn’t necessarily mean John would be open to a relationship. At the very least, though, it meant that John found something about him physically appealing. _Sexy_ , even, perhaps. Sherlock allowed himself a brief smug smile and an indulgent glance at John’s back, hips, and arse. The thought of John’s eyes on him made his heart race, his skin tingle with awareness; the thought of his _hands_ on him instead—

“I’m knackered,” John said, startling Sherlock out of his fantasy. His eyes snapped up to John’s, which sparkled with amusement. “And we still have a lot to do before your parents arrive tomorrow evening. Want to finish this round and head home?”

Sherlock nodded and turned away, not trusting himself to speak. He wanted to slide closer, put his hand on the small of John’s back again, see if he would press himself close like before. He was flushed with warmth, though, and the fire had caught well, throwing off waves of heat. He no longer had the excuse of warming up by the fire after a chilly winter evening case, the icy bite having faded completely from his body in the wake of _John_.

Did he still need an excuse?

“Come on. Bottom’s up,” John said. He tapped his cup against Sherlock and tipped his entire thing back, drinking deeply.

Sherlock watched the motion of John’s throat as he swallowed the mulled wine, letting the tug of longing in his gut go unchecked.

For the first time, he allowed himself to truly hope.


	9. Trimming the Tree

The next morning, John and Sherlock pulled the dusty old fake Christmas tree from the basement apartment and let themselves be stuffed with cranberry scones by Mrs. Hudson. The flat was warm, filled with the spicy scents of cinnamon and nutmeg and brightly lit by the spill of sunlight through the windows. John wore his least ugly Christmas jumper, one that did amazing things to his chest and shoulders, and Sherlock had conceded to wear a button down of deep forest green that could be considered vaguely festive.

All in all, it was a beautiful, cheery pre-Christmas morning… that was entirely ruined by childish bickering.

“Boys, honestly,” Mrs. Hudson begged. “It’s not right to be so cross with each other this close to Christmas. Can’t you just—”

Sherlock opened his mouth to snap, but John whirled around first, nearly tripping over a tangled pile of multicolored lights. “I would be happy to _just_. Only, Mr. Savile Row over here seems to think that our Christmas tree isn’t good enough unless it matches his gorgeous catalog-quality aesthetic. No family ornaments or—”

“John, all I said was that I preferred white lights instead of multicolored because of the way the lights clashed with the ornaments. It wasn’t a judgment of your ornaments or a statement of class,” Sherlock argued automatically, though the vast majority of his brain was stuck on repeat, hearing _gorgeous_ directed at _him_ , in _John_ ’s voice. “I’m happy to have your family ornaments on our tree, which I was _trying_ to say! Would you prefer that I stop wearing my suits? Would that make you feel better?”

“No!” John answered without a second’s hesitation, then shut his mouth with an audible click and pursed lips. Sherlock barely suppressed a grin, and Mrs. Hudson hid a snicker behind her hand when John flushed. “I think the rest of the world frowns on going out in a dressing gown and pyjamas,” John added. “Or only a sheet, for that matter.”

At that, their eyes met for a brief, silent moment, and they broke into a fit of uncontrollable giggles. Sherlock spun around and snatched the crystal ashtray from its place on the mantle, then formally presented it to John on a flat, outstretched palm.

“Do you think we could make it balance on the top of the tree? It deserves a place of honor, don’t you think?”

John’s high-pitched giggles collapsed into full-on laughter. He grabbed the ashtray in one hand and Sherlock’s wrist in the other, then yanked him close enough to balance the ashtray on top of his curly head.

“There,” John said through huffs of laughter, mere inches from Sherlock’s lips. “Place of honor.”

Sherlock froze to keep the ashtray from falling and locked his eyes on John’s mouth, where his tongue darted out to wet his lips. John’s fingers stroked gently at the inside of Sherlock’s wrist, leaving him breathless and shivering, desperate to close the gap, to let the crystal shatter to the floor in exchange for the press of John’s mouth against his. They were so close, and John was smiling, his eyes still bright with mirth.

A squeak from Mrs. Hudson broke the spell, and John’s hands darted out to catch the crystal ashtray as it tumbled from the crown of Sherlock’s head. Then he heard it.

Footsteps on the stairs. Three sets.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, and he rounded on Mrs. Hudson.

“I knew you were hiding _something_ , but I thought it was your poorly-concealed attempt at a surprise gift. This is…” His lip curled. “…utterly devious.”

“Oh, but it’ll be so nice to see them before I leave, Sherlock, and more time with family can never be a bad thing!”

Sherlock scoffed and threw his shoulders back, ready to let her know in great detail how wrong she truly was, when the door flew open.

“Sherlock, dear!”

He closed his eyes and sighed with his entire being.

“Hello, Mummy.”


	10. Christmas Party & Family Traditions

Sherlock glared daggers at his mother’s back as he paced around the sitting room, doing his best to tune out the horrid small talk his family insisted on. They’d only been there for six hours and Sherlock was already on the verge of creating a crime scene of his own. They’d managed to finish decorating the tree, have lunch, ‘catch up’, and watch a horrid holiday movie together in that time, and though John had done an admirable job of keeping Mycroft in check and managing Sherlock’s moods simultaneously, they were both still teetering on the edge of their tempers.

Then the downstairs front door opened and shut, followed by a pair of familiar footsteps. Sherlock found John’s eyes across the room and grinned.

“That’s Lestrade! We have a case!” Sherlock darted into the kitchen and snagged John by the wrist, dragging him backwards away from Mummy and her snake charmer’s words. “So sorry, Mummy, but the work calls. John and I will be back before Christmas morning, but—”

Sherlock whirled to face Lestrade when the door to the flat opened—and stopped dead in his tracks, his face falling into distress. Lestrade stood in the doorway, an utterly hideous Christmas jumper pulled over his work clothes, a bottle of scotch with a bow in one hand and a Tesco’s bag in the other.

_Oh. Oh, no._

“Am I early?” Lestrade asked into the suddenly heavy silence that had fallen over 221b.

Mrs. Hudson bustled forward, never one to be cowed by Sherlock’s moods. “Not at all, dear, just the first to arrive.” She took the Tesco’s bag from him and peeked inside, then patted him on the cheek. “Molly will be here, never you worry, Inspector. Have you met the Holmes’ yet?”

Greg grinned at Sherlock’s warning gesture and cheerfully ignored it. “No, I’ve not had the pleasure! You must be Sherlock’s mother. Thank you for the secret invite,” he said, moving toward Mummy with his hand outstretched.

“Oh, it was no trouble, dear. I know Sherlock would never let me meet any of his friends otherwise,” she said with a charming grin, and Greg was instantly swept up into the Holmes clan. Sherlock tipped his head back and groaned, until John’s fingers tangled through his and brought him back to attention.

Oh.

He’d never let go of John’s wrist after dragging him away, and now they were holding hands in the middle of 221b while Mummy looked on with a fierce sort of smugness.

“It’ll be fine,” John said, squeezing gently. “A holiday party with our friends will spread the attention around so your parents won’t be so focused on you all the time. It’ll give you a bit of a break from them.”

Sherlock scowled, but swept his thumb over the back of John’s hand, not yet ready to let go. “Mummy was the mastermind behind this, you know. Meddling is one of our time-honored family traditions, and she’s the worst of the lot. She’s orchestrated all this as a method of prying into my life, so she can interrogate everyone I know and study my interactions with them.”

John threw back his head and laughed, then tugged Sherlock a bit closer. “Sounds a bit like you,” he murmured, watching Mummy close in on Greg and begin her questioning out of the corner of his eye.

“Well, I did come from _somewhere_ , you know,” Sherlock said, hyper aware of John’s proximity, of the precise distance between their mouths. 

John had been steadily more physically affectionate since moving back in post-Mary, nearly a year ago now, but it could have been for a hundred possible reasons. A need for security or reassurance. Fear over Sherlock nearly dying yet again. An expression of their deep friendship. Holding hands in front of family, though… not as easily explained. Was it just something they did now?

Molly chose that moment to arrive in all her festive glory, wearing a tight yet classy dress and a reasonable amount of tasteful makeup. She was getting better, Sherlock admitted to himself, though he couldn’t help but hate her a bit when she immediately threw herself at him for a hug, forcing him to drop John’s hand. She dragged him over to the makeshift drink station Mrs. Hudson had set up in the kitchen, making a show of choosing a drink to pour herself while she zeroed in on Sherlock’s eyes.

“So, I saw _that_ ,” she said with an exaggerated leer. “Did you give him the wine already? Or did things just happen without it somehow?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes to cover the painful tightness in his chest. “You didn’t _see_ anything. He’s always like that. Nothing has happened. Not… really.” He looked away.

“Meaning you still haven’t managed to actually _use words_ and _talk_ about anything like adults who have been in love with each other for _literally years_ ,” Molly said, shoving a glass of white wine into his hand. He grimaced.

“John’s feelings on the matter are still unknown, though I will grant that he has been more… affectionate lately. There could be other reasons, though.” He took a gulp of wine to tamp down the rush of hope that made him want to tell Molly about every single escalating touch over the past week, like a teenager at a sleepover. Ridiculous. “Besides, if it’s so easy, what about you and Gavin?”

Molly sighed at him, then took a long drink of wine and squared her shoulders. “You’re right. I’ll show you how it’s done, then. Good luck, Sherlock,” she said, then spun around and strode straight up to Greg where he stood talking to the group that now included Stamford and Bill Wiggins. From the kitchen, Sherlock watched her lean up to kiss Greg on the cheek and wish him a happy Christmas, then skillfully maneuver him away from the group conversation so they could talk privately. Her hand lingered on his shoulder, then his elbow, then his hip. It was a matter of minutes before Molly leaned up to press a gentle, chaste kiss to Greg’s lips, which he happily returned, a blush high on his cheeks. They soon rejoined the group conversation with their arms wound around each other, glowingly happy and in cheerful spirits. Molly shot him a wink and raised her eyebrows as if to say, _See?_ Sherlock hid a smile behind his glass.

John joined him in a kitchen a moment later, a bright grin directed back at the group. “Wow. I mean, good for them, finally getting themselves sorted and all, but I wonder what suddenly got into her?”

Sherlock spun the stem of his wine glass between his thumb and forefinger, watching the wine form a tiny whirlpool inside. He smiled, a tiny, sad quirk of his lips, and shrugged.

“I guess they finally got tired of waiting,” he said.


	11. Christmas Without You / Mistletoe

Greg and Molly were (unsurprisingly) the first ones to leave the party around eight o’clock, feigning an early night due to work commitments. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but for once kept his mouth shut, leaving them to slip away for their night of sex in peace. Mrs. Hudson left next, needing to catch her ride to her sister’s house, leaving them all with happy Christmas wishes and kisses on the cheek. The others trickled out over the next fifteen minutes, including Mycroft, until finally only John, Sherlock, and his parents remained, lounging in their chairs and on the couch.

After a moment of blissful silence, John braced his hands on his knees and hauled himself out of his chair, then picked up a packed duffel he had stashed by the front door earlier that evening.

“I should be off too, I suppose. Don’t want Harry to have to pick me up from the tube station too late.”

_What?_

Sherlock shot to his feet and followed John to the door, his heart clenching painfully. “But… I thought—”

Mummy cut him off, shifting into full mother rescue mode. “Oh, no, John, you have to stay! I thought you were spending Christmas with us!

John grinned at her, then slid a hand up Sherlock’s arm in a comforting gesture. “I am, don’t worry! It’s just for one night. I _did_ tell you about this, you know.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and thought back. John had mentioned something about Harry while they were baking cookies the other day, but he’d also stripped down to his vest once the heat of the oven got to be too much, and his _arms_ had been—

John squeezed Sherlock’s bicep. “I have to at least drop by for a bit at Christmas. She’s the only family I have left.”

Mummy scoffed. “Nonsense, John. You have us, too, and Sherlock. Not that Harry isn’t important, of course, but you make sure you come back to us for Christmas day, you hear me?” Father nodded his agreement, a sparkle in his eye that said _don’t even bother protesting._

John flushed and shot them a grateful smile. ”I will. I promise.”

He squeezed Sherlock’s arm one more time, then glanced up and froze. Sherlock followed his gaze to… ah. Some cheeky bastard had tacked a sprig of mistletoe over their doorway where it couldn’t be avoided. Must have done it on their way out after the party. Greg, at Molly’s encouragement, most likely. Sherlock’s face went hot, couldn’t seem to form words. “Um…”

John dropped his bag and wrapped both arms around Sherlock’s lean frame, one hand on the back of his neck, the other at the curve of his waist. Sherlock hesitated, then brought his arms around John’s shoulders and leaned down to rest his temple against the side of John’s head. John’s arms tightened into a fierce hug, and Sherlock was on the verge of cracking wide open, his heart displayed, everything he felt for this man there for all to see.

Then John turned his head, and pressed a single, slow kiss to Sherlock’s sharp cheekbone.

“Don’t worry,” John whispered, his voice pitched low. “I’m not spending Christmas without you this year.”

Sherlock’s watched in a daze as John picked up his bag and left. His head swam with the heart-pounding intimacy of the moment, his cheek burning with the memory of John’s lips. He stared at the spot where John had stood, silent, trying to process, when a thought occurred to him:

That could have been their first kiss. John probably would have kissed him, _really_ kissed him, had his parents not been sitting there.

 _Damn_ them.

Sherlock closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall with a pained groan.

“You really should just make a move already,” Mummy said, matter-of-fact.

It was a testament to Sherlock’s emotional turmoil that he didn’t even bother denying it, or snapping at her for meddling. Instead, he buried his fingers in his curls and squeezed his eyes shut even tighter.

“I know.”

 


	12. Christmas Songs

Sherlock stood before the sitting room window, looking out over the street below and letting the nighttime chill seep through the panes, into his bones. His violin rested under his chin, though he largely ignored it, keeping it there only as a comforting weight slumped against his collarbone. Every so often, his restless fingers would drift up to the strings, pluck out a few bars of an absent-minded Christmas carol. Behind it all, Sherlock’s thoughts spun out of control.

“You’re much quieter these days,” Mummy said from her nest of blankets on the couch. She had changed into flannel pyjamas and made them all hot toddies, then settled down with one of Sherlock’s monographs while Father perused John’s collection of mystery novels. Sherlock hadn’t spoken a word to them since John left. His lips twisted in reply to Mummy’s words.

“A lot’s happened,” he said simply.

“You fell in love,” Father clarified, cradling one of John’s favorite dog-eared books in his weathered hands.

Sherlock doesn’t deny it, doesn’t say anything at all.

Mummy hummed her assent. “My boy is in love, so much that it’s painful to see.” She paused. “But that happened ages and ages ago. The quiet is new.” She sipped at her drink and waited, her silence filled with expectation. She would wait all night for her answer, Sherlock knew. He closed his eyes and took a silent breath.

“I know what it’s like to have something to lose, and to lose it,” he said, fighting the instinct to snap something caustic and cruel instead. “I know what it’s like to plan John’s wedding. To watch him marry someone else, then to watch _him_ lose everything, too. And I know what it’s like to have a second chance that could ruin everything all over again. How do you decide if the risk is worth it?”

Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin line and blinked rapidly.

“A lot’s happened,” he said again.

A hand landed on his back, rubbed a comforting circle, then Mummy’s cheek pressed into his shoulder.

“If that man doesn’t sweep you off your feet on Christmas morning, I shall turn absolutely monstrous,” she said, a hint of teasing under the ferocity of her words.

“But there’ll be no need for that,” Father added from over Sherlock’s other shoulder. “John is only waiting for your move.”

“But why does it have to be me?” Sherlock whined, wishing for the thousandth time that John would take the initiative, take this final step out of his hands, press his body up against the wall and say _this is how it is._

His father chuckled. “Because you’re the genius who sees everything. He assumes you’ve already observed how he feels. The only unknown is you.” A rustle of fingers through his mother’s hair, the gentle smack of lips against her cheek. “At least, that’s how it was for me.”

Sherlock watched their reflection in the window as they gathered their things and made their way down to Mrs. Hudson’s flat for the night, their every move a choreographed dance of years together, slipping past and around one another with casual touches and bits of affection. Was that what others saw when they looked at him and John?

He hoped so. He hoped it was obvious to everyone that after all this time, they belonged to each other, that they moved together and around each other with the easy familiarity of years and love.

The flat echoed with John’s absence, the walls reflecting Sherlock’s unrest back to him, multiplied and layered. So he filled it with music instead. He raised his bow, set the instrument properly under his chin, and drew out the long, full notes of Silent Night, willing a bit of that peace to settle in his chest.

_One more day._


	13. All Wrapped Up / Christmas Movies

Christmas Eve morning dawned cold and Johnless, and it quickly went downhill from there. By ten in the morning, Sherlock was in full-on sulk mode, flopping about on the couch like an extremely grumpy fish out of water while his parents insisted on stirring their tea with bright good mornings, sitting in chairs with chipper conversation, and watching Christmas telly with joyful laughter.

It was hateful, and he so desperately wished John were there to mitigate the terrible mundanity of it all.

“Sherlock, look, this is your father’s favorite Christmas movie!” Mummy called. “Turn over and watch it with us. I’ll make you some breakfast.”

Sherlock growled, actually _growled_ , and pushed his face farther into the cold, smooth leather of the couch. It lessened the (admittedly delicious) smell of bacon hanging heavy in the air, which was tempting, but he refused to admit defeat.

Without looking up, Sherlock fumbled in the pocket of his dressing gown for his phone. Perhaps he could guilt John into coming home, thereby solving two problems at once. He pulled his face out of the couch and held his breath against the bacon scent as he typed out a quick text.

_Bored. - SH_

The reply came within thirty seconds.

_Me too, honestly. How are your parents?_

Sherlock’s mouth turned up at the corner. “If you’re so bored, you should come home,” he muttered under his breath, his thumbs flying across the keyboard.

_Revoltingly cheerful. They insist on watching endless horrible Christmas films. Save me. - SH_

Direct, to the point, but not overly pathetic or begging. John had already been at Harry’s for nearly twelve hours. Surely that was enough to fulfill his familial obligation. Sherlock’s need was obviously greater. The phone chimed.

_Take them out. Go walk in the park, see the sights, catch a show. Dilute their cheerfulness among the general population._

Not a bad idea. Better than watching yet another remake of A Christmas Carol. Bah Humbug. But that still didn’t solve the Johnlessness issue.

_When are you coming home? - SH_

_Not for a few hours yet. Harry is insisting on a mini christmas dinner with crackers and everything. Sorry._

Sherlock huffed and flopped onto his back, squirming against the irritation of clothes, of the squeaky couch leather, the smells he didn’t want. Too much. He needed out of the Johnless 221B.

Up, flee to the bedroom, pass by the bacon on the table. Fast shower and shave, then clothes—

Sherlock hesitated.

It was Christmas Eve. Tomorrow was the day. Perhaps it would be beneficial…

He selected his clothing with care, slipping on a silvery grey shirt that always caught John’s gaze, made his deep blue eyes linger on his throat, collarbones, and chest. His favorite black suit, with the pants tailored to perfection, sitting perfectly at his narrow hips, cupping his arse in a way that drove John to distraction, and the jacket that emphasized his narrow waist. He studied himself for a moment in the mirror, then tamed his frizzy post-shower curls with a bit of product. His jeweltone blue scarf finished off the look, making his eyes glow a bright grey-blue.

The effect was… good. Sherlock let a bit of smugness pull at the corner of his mouth as he picked his phone up off the bathroom counter and turned it over in his hand once, twice. Maybe he could send John a picture. Let John know what he was missing. Would that be weird? Perhaps not if he got his parents into the shot, or—

A knock interrupted his thoughts. “Sherlock? Are you going to eat any of this bacon before I put it away?”

Sherlock gritted his teeth and barely suppressed a snarl.

“No,” he snapped. He flung the door open and shooed Mummy away, chasing her back down the hallway and into the kitchen. “We’re going out,” he added, making sure his father heard as well.

“Well then. Best get our shoes on and put away the bacon,” Father said, dropping a kiss at his wife’s temple before shuffling off to find socks.

“We’ll be ready in a moment, dear,” Mummy said. She didn’t react at all to the perfectly wrapped and labeled organs in the fridge as she slid the wrapped up bacon onto the relatively-clear top shelf. When she turned back to Sherlock, she gave him a thorough once-over.

“You’ll do, I think,” she said, bringing her hands up to cup his upper arms. Her chin twitched with a suppressed smile. “He won’t be able to keep his eyes off you.”

Sherlock flushed and shooed her away away again. “Go, you terrible woman. I’m leaving without you.”

The belstaff was all that remained, and Sherlock swung it over his shoulders with a flair, loving the surge of power that always came with it. He was bundled against the cold, yes, but also instantly more sure, more in control of himself. He trotted downstairs to wait for his parents in the entryway, shoving his gloves in his pockets so he could still text. Something to rile John up, make him want to come home early…

_Mummy’s recreational nagging is driving me to smoke. I’m buying cigarettes while we’re out. I can’t be blamed for my actions.  - SH_

He smirked, and waited. He didn’t wait long.

_Don’t you dare. I don’t want you smelling like smoke all night._

Sherlock smiled down at his phone, then pocketed it, resisting the urge to reply. John would obsess over it, wondering if his lack of reply meant he was smoking like a chimney. Perhaps it would bring him back sooner. Perhaps he’d be thinking about Sherlock all day because of it.

Perhaps he was doing that anyway.

Mummy and Father came out a moment later, and Sherlock lead them on a whirlwind tour of he and John’s favorite neighborhood spots: former crime scenes, Regent’s Park, lunch at the Chinese restaurant they’d eaten at after their first case. They were on their way to Covent Garden at Mummy’s insistence when Sherlock’s phone chimed for the first time in over two hours.

_I’m leaving now. Heard there was a snowstorm coming, and I really don’t want to get trapped out here. Hope I’ll make it home before it gets bad!_

Sherlock froze.

_No._

No, John couldn’t miss Christmas, not after everything, not when they were so close, when Sherlock could already picture the look on John’s face when he saw him in his best clothes, could practically taste the wine on John’s lips.

He stared at his phone for a long minute before tapping out his reply.

_You have to make it. I refuse to have Christmas otherwise. Come home. - SH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow will be a direct continuation, hence the little teaser for tomorrow’s prompt: Snowed In. Things are about to go up to 11, y’all.


	14. Snowed In

Sherlock stopped in his tracks right in the middle of the crowd, enveloped by the pack of revelers all swallowed in their coats and scarves, huddled against the increasingly chilled wind. His head was bent over his phone, his mouth pressed into an unhappy line, while his parents walked on without him. They made it halfway across the square before they realized that Sherlock was no longer with them, then doubled back. Sherlock didn’t look up as they approached.

“Sherlock? What’s wrong?” Mummy asked, taking him by the elbow to move him to the edge of the crowd.

Sherlock’s mouth seized up in a tight frown. He took a deep breath through his nose and swallowed.

“There’s a snowstorm coming. John is leaving now, but he might not make it before the storm hits. He could be stuck out there for Christmas.”

Mummy’s face hardened. “Nonsense. You will be together for Christmas if I have to grow wings and fly him here myself. Where is he coming from?”

“Harlow. He’ll be taking the Greater Anglia line back.” Sherlock pulled up a train schedule on his phone and scrolled through, his eyes darting over the screen. One of the two o’clock hour trains, most likely, arriving sometime after three…

“Well, tell him we’ll meet him at the station,” Father said. “Where will he be changing trains?”

Another few taps, a quick look at the map.

“Tottenham Hale. We can be there in half an hour. We should beat John by a few minutes.”

Mummy smiles. “Well, let’s go! Not a moment—.”

Sherlock whirled around and stalked off in the direction of the tube station before she could finish, his coat a dramatic swirl around him, not bothering to check if Mummy and Father were following. They could keep up. He texted as he walked, letting the crowd part before him like water before the sharp prow of a boat.

_We’re meeting you at the station. If we’re going to be stuck, we’ll all be stuck together. - SH_

The phone chimed with a reply as the Piccadilly tube station entrance came into view.

_A grand christmas eve reunion at a train station. I feel like we’re in one of those films you hate so much! It’s already snowing like crazy over here. Can’t wait to see you._

The breath caught in Sherlock’s throat, and he clattered to a halt, this thumbs hovering over the keys. The icy air bit at his cheeks, burned them a rosy pink. Finally, he replied.

_You too. - SH_

The first flakes began to fall.

 

#  #  #

 

Sherlock charged off the Victoria Line train and into the holiday crowds, guiding his parents to the Greater Anglia Line transfer point. Their transfer had been a few minutes off and the Greater Anglia train had likely already arrived, of- _bloody_ -course. Sherlock shouldered his way past people without a care, to shouts of “Merry fucking Christmas, wanker!” and other colorful greetings, until he finally stumbled onto the correct platform. He scanned the faces, intent and focused—not John, not John, cheating on her husband, bought a puppy for Christmas, not John, not John.

None of them were John.

Sherlock shifted his focus just long enough to dash off a quick text.

_Where are you? - SH_

He went back to scanning the crowd, but the reply was swift.

_Still on the train. Another 20 minutes or so._

_What?_ Maybe he’d had to catch a later train? Or… or else…

Sherlock groaned.

_Where are you getting off?_

_Liverpool street station. Decided I may as well get as far into the city as possible before I risk changing trains._

Sherlock threw his hands up in a huff and nearly ran his parents down in the rush to get to the ticketing machine. Mummy caught up just as he was swiping his card.

“What happened, Sherlock? Where’s John?”

“On the train to Liverpool Street Station, which is where we’re headed.” The machine spat out three tickets, two of which he shoved into Mummy’s hands. “Come on, this train is leaving any second and we need to be on it!”

 

#   #   #

 

Sherlock stared out the window, listening to the clatter of metal on metal and letting the train’s vibrations soothe his nerves. They were minutes away from the station, minutes away from John, and once he saw John, it was only a matter of hours before Christmas Day. Supper, a single night’s sleep, and it would be time. Sherlock clenched his hand on his leg and buried the urge to squirm. When his phone chimed, he nearly threw it across the train car in his haste to raise it to his eyes.

_I’m here. Where are you?_

Sherlock peeked out the window to check their progress.

Nearly there. Stay where you are. I’m coming. - SH

Sherlock shoved the phone in his coat pocket and half rose from his seat, drumming his fingers on the chairbacks in front and behind him. He kept his eyes closed as the train pulled into the station, but he could hear the smile in his father’s voice when he spoke.

“Well, son, we probably won’t have a chance to talk privately again before you make your grand gesture.” A hand patted his arm. “I’d wish you good luck, but he’s obviously over the moon for you, so there’s really no need.”

Sherlock huffed a skeptical laugh and opened his eyes. “There’s still plenty of opportunity for me to cock it up. Or for him to read things as _platonic_ , though I’m not sure how throwing myself at him with romantic red wine can possibly be misconstrued.”

Mummy gathered her bag and stood, allowing herself to be herded off the train by Sherlock and Father.

“Have you considered just telling him how you feel and what you want? With words?” she asked.

Sherlock growled in frustration and stormed onto the platform. “Why does everyone keep _saying_ that? Does no one in this world have a sense of self-preservation? Where is _John_?” he snapped.

Because once again, John was nowhere in sight.

“We say it because we _observe_ , Sherlock. There is no risk for you in this situation,” Mummy continued, but Sherlock cut her off with a quick gesture. His phone was glowing with a missed text message, timestamped five minutes earlier.

_Going to step out front for some fresh air. Weird fan followed me off the train. Hoping they aren’t desperate enough to stand out in the snow._

Something fierce and joyful bubbled up in Sherlock’s chest, and a smile spilled onto his face. _John_. He pushed for the exit, left his parents behind, burst out into the chilly early evening air—

And there he was. Standing out in the open, looking up at the snow, his duffel clutched in one hand. Fluffy white flakes drifted onto his upturned cheeks, and the setting sun turned his silvering hair a blazing gold. He was _gorgeous_. And when he turned to smile at Sherlock, _gorgeous_ became _breathtaking_.

John dropped his bag and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, burying his face into Sherlock’s scarf, and Sherlock’s beating heart cracked right open. He breathed in, and with it came the story of an afternoon, of crowded trains and fresh bread with dinner, of Harry’s messy flat and Tesco-brand shampoo, of John, of _John_ , of _John_.

_I can’t wait any longer._

“Let’s go home,” John murmured. A shiver went down Sherlock’s spine as John’s warm breath ghosted over his ear, and he tightened his hold, pressing John closer to ease the ache in his chest.

“Yes,” he replied.

Sherlock was quiet as John lead Mummy and Father back to Baker Street, with a stop off for Thai takeout along the way. They laughed together and shared stories, regaling each other with embarrassing family tales and past misdeeds, and all the while the snow rained down and down and down. It piled along the sidewalks, an inch, then two, crunching wetly underfoot. And John…

John huddled close against Sherlock’s side the entire time. Possibly for warmth. Or possibly not.

The crystalline snowflakes in John’s silver and gold hair glittered in the warm light of 221 Baker Street when they finally closed the door behind them. The snow showed no signs of slowing, had already started to pile up against the outer door. They’d be snowed in by eight o’clock. Mummy and Father demurred at John’s suggestion of an evening drink, pleading fatigue after the day’s walking. Sherlock shot them a grateful glance as they disappeared into 221A, then refocused on John.

_John._

“I’m going to head up and change, then maybe we can have a drink, watch a film?” John asked, a hand warm against Sherlock’s arm. Hot and cold tingles washed through Sherlock’s whole body, originating at the point of contact, and his heart thudded unevenly in his chest. John’s lips were so close. His body was so warm, his eyes so bright. Sherlock felt himself draw closer, lean down, completely trapped by the gravity of John’s mouth.

_I can’t wait any longer._

“I’ll get the drinks,” Sherlock said, closing his eyes and drawing in a deep breath.

John squeezed his arm, and Sherlock refused to open his eyes again until the echoing footfalls reached the top landing. His hand twitched and jittered at his side.

Then he burst into frantic motion.

Into his room, under his bed. Smooth, cool bottle in his hand. Into the kitchen, two glasses, side by side on the counter. Into the fridge to chill for ten minute. No, too long, not enough time to let it come back up to serving temperature. Back out. One long finger down the neck of the bottle. A moment.

A long, deep breath. Another.

Sherlock uncorked the wine to let it breathe, too.

——————————

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating will go up very soon. You have been warned. The chapter with the higher rating will be clearly marked so you can skip it if you prefer.


	15. All I Want for Christmas is You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize a thousand times for the delay between updates! Holidays and family visits and sick happened. I'd hoped I would be able to continue writing while I visited family for the holidays, but... yeah, that was completely unrealistic. Sorry if I worried you!

Sherlock clutched the edge of the worktop with his eyes closed, taking breath after breath into lungs that refused to feel full. John’s gentle scuffling footsteps through the ceiling above played a rhythmic counterpart: over to the dresser, back to the bed, creak of the mattress. The wine glasses sat atop the counter, still and waiting, empty, awaiting the wine’s flushed red touch.

It was time. One way or another, he would have his answer soon. No point in panicking over a decision already made. No matter what happened, he and John would make it through. They could make it through anything. Always had. Always will.

The tension eased.

Sherlock forced his fingers to relax, took a breath that finally satisfied the burn in his lungs. Earlier, John had held him in his arms. Yesterday, he’d kissed him on the cheek. Earlier that week, he’d put his hand on Sherlock’s waist and held him close in front of the fire. Before that, a brief hand-hold at a crime scene. And before the wine, too. Dozens of moments, hundreds, stretching back months and years to the first day, that instant point of connection over a lab table in St. Barts that had been the beginning of something More.

So much more.

A swell of pressure bloomed beneath Sherlock’s breastbone, a rush that was quickly tamed by the sound of John’s footsteps on the stairs. A sudden calm washed through him, fed by the remembered warmth of John’s hands on him for years, _years_. Sherlock allowed a tiny smile to pull at his mouth when John stepped up behind him, pyjama pants whispering against the rug.

John rested a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and leaned around him to pick up the bottle, turning it about to study the label.

“Where’d this come from?” he said. “I thought our wine rack was empty.”

And Sherlock took an easy breath in, turned to John, and pulled the bottle from his hands, letting their fingers brush and tangle together.

“It’s for you. I bought it for you,” Sherlock said, even and low. “It’s… your Christmas gift. I hope you don’t mind if I give it to you early. I couldn’t wait any longer.”

Sherlock touched the lip of the bottle to the rim of the first glass and poured a generous measure, the deep ruby color revealed as it splashed into the empty vessel. A little half turn at the end to avoid a drip, then a second portion. Two perfectly even glasses of Merlot.

Sherlock picked them both up and handed one to John, who looked up from under his lashes with a shy smile. John held the glass up to the light and watched it refract through the crimson liquid for a moment before cutting his eyes back to Sherlock.

“Red wine for Christmas,” he said slowly, with a drawn-out smile to match. His eyes were so warm, liquid and dark. Sherlock couldn’t look away, awaiting John’s verdict with all the tension of a plucked violin string. John’s thumb brushed slowly across the bowl of the glass, then his smile widened. “It’s perfect. Is it ready to drink yet?”

Sherlock buried his nose in his glass, buying himself a steadying moment under the guise of analyzing the fruity, spiced scent of the wine. It _did_ smell perfect. The perfect companion to this moment, this night, the warm, blooming feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Not… quite yet,” he finally answered. He spun the stem of the wine glass between his forefinger and thumb for a moment, acknowledging the nervous habit and allowing himself the small, anxious outlet. “There’s something…”

John lifted his free hand and rested it on Sherlock’s hip, his thumb stroking through his shirt along one sharp hip bone. Sherlock’s breath caught, stuttered in his lungs—then gave way to a flood of courage.

_This is ridiculous._

Sherlock shifted closer, sucked in a deep breath through his nose and let the words spill out all at once, in a rush. “I told you a few days ago that I was happier than I ever thought I’d be,” he said. “And that’s true. It is. But there is one thing, John. One thing that could make me happier still.”

And he let his forehead drop, let his dark curls come to rest against John’s silver and gold, let their noses brush and breath mingle and let all of it, _all of it_ fill the scant space between them.

“I am so… _so_ devastatingly in love with you, John Watson.”

Sherlock knew there was supposed to be a question in there somewhere, a request, but it seemed a bit redundant with the way John’s hand slid from his hip around to his lower back, pulling them against each other, his eyes shining and wet and his head tipped back and—

The first brush was little more than a catch of lower lip upon lower lip, more about texture than pressure; about gentle, tentative contact; about _finally_ and _can we?,_ permission and reciprocation, about yes and _yes_ and _YES_.

_Oh._

Sherlock angled his head and pressed in, capturing John’s mouth completely in a lingering, all-encompassing kiss and pouring every ounce of the _daysmonthsyears_ of tension and wanting into the sweet, slow motion of their lips. Their bodies aligned, hummed with the perfect harmony of their hips together, John’s fingers as five points of steadying pressure in the small of his back where his skin thrummed with the contact.

When they broke apart, breathing heavily despite the adagio tempo of the kiss, Sherlock felt the flush in his cheeks, the smile he couldn’t hide, and saw their mirror in John Watson.

“God… so _long_ , Sherlock,” John gasped. He brushed their noses together again before leaning back enough to study Sherlock’s whole face.

Sherlock felt suddenly shy, knowing everything was written large on his face for John to see. His eyes darted to the side, to the floor, but John wouldn’t have it. He guided Sherlock’s hand, still clutching his wine glass, up to chest level, then clinked his own glass against Sherlock’s in a toast. “We’ve waited so very long. And I am so unbelievably happy to finally be here. All I ever wanted for Christmas was you. Thank you for this perfect gift.”

John met Sherlock’s eyes directly and, holding his gaze the entire time, raised the glass to his mouth and drank deeply. When they kissed again, bright bursts of black cherry and plum lingered on John’s tongue, the flavor better in John’s mouth than it could ever be from a glass.

John pulled back just long enough to whisper: “I love you, too. I never said.”

Sherlock’s chest was simultaneously full to bursting and light as air. He raised his glass to brush against his plush lower lip in an imitation of John’s kiss and let the mingled scents of wine and John flood his senses. Relief. Contentment. Desire. _Love_.

Sherlock smiled.

“I’ll drink to that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rating will increase tomorrow. It'll either be M or E, but... let's be honest. It's me. It's probably going to be explicit as hell. 
> 
> You can skip tomorrow’s chapter without missing any plotty things, except what John gives Sherlock for Christmas, which I’ll be sure to put in the author’s notes. Thank you again for your patience. I hope this has been worth the wait. More coming soon.


	16. St. Nicholas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that the rating of this fic has increased. This chapter is rated EXPLICIT. You can skip this chapter without losing any plot.

Sherlock’s stomach and chest sang with the warmth of the wine and the driving heat of John’s kisses. Their mouths met in between sips of wine, their tongues twisting together with flavors of cherry and plum, their lips curved into shy smiles in between.

“So, why this particular wine?” John asked as he finished his final sip, tracing his tongue along the rim of the glass to catch the final drop. Sherlock followed the motion in a daze, entranced, until he realized he’d been asked a question.

“It was recommended to me. The woman at the shop called it…” he hesitated, felt his cheeks heat a bit. “…full-bodied and seductive. Perfect for a night in.”

John’s smile turned wicked. “I have something for you, too, actually. Mind helping me get it?”

John indicated the highest cabinet in the kitchen with raised eyebrows, obviously proud of his own genius, which Sherlock acknowledged with a quirk of his mouth.

“I never would have checked a hiding place so high above your head. Very clever indeed, Dr. Watson,” Sherlock said. He let his lean body slide against John’s as he stretched up for the top cabinet and drew down… a bottle of scotch and rizla paper?

John cleared his throat and looked away, his mouth suddenly tight. “I hope it’s not… It’s the same brand—”

“—we drank on your stag night. I remember,” Sherlock murmured, turning the bottle over to study the label. John covered Sherlock’s hand with his own and licked his lips, unable to meet Sherlock’s eyes.

“I wanted a do-over of that night,” John said. “I wanted to go back and keep Tess from interrupting us. I wanted to go back and keep… _anything_ from coming between us. To put us where we belong.”

“And where do we belong?” Sherlock whispered.

John ran the tip of his tongue along his lower lip and turned, finally catching Sherlock’s gaze.

“Together,” he said. “In every way.”

A wicked grin pulled at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “In _every_ way?”

John’s eyes darkened, and he took the bottle from Sherlock’s hands and set it on the worktop beside them.

“I wanted,” he said, backing Sherlock up against the refrigerator door, “to continue what I started. I had my hands all over you, Sherlock. Do you remember? Did you realize?” He pinned Sherlock against the hard surface with a hand on each sharp hip, then dragged his palms up Sherlock’s sides, over his chest and back down. “Did you know what I wanted?”

Sherlock brushed his nose against John’s and dipped his head so his words ghosted over John’s lips. “I thought it was wishful thinking,” he rumbled.

John’s smile turned dirty under Sherlock’s mouth. He wrapped a hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck and yanked him down so his words hummed straight into Sherlock’s ear.

“It was. It was me wishfully thinking I could get on my knees for you right there in the middle of our sitting room, suck you down and make you scream. I would have done it, Sherlock, would have sucked you off that night and fucked you over that chair and never left.” John’s hand tightened around the back of Sherlock’s neck in emphasis. “I would _never_ have left you.”

And as John fell to his knees on the kitchen floor, one thought occurred to Sherlock in a moment of crystal clarity:

John Watson had sucked cock before.

_Oh, God._

Sherlock’s head swam as John mouthed at his cock through his thin suit trousers. His belt was gone. When had that happened? His mind was a complete disaster area: memories from the stag night, images of John on his knees in the sand enthusiastically sucking off a faceless man in uniform, and blinding, overriding pleasure as John tugged his zip down and dipped a thumb in to swipe at the head of Sherlock’s leaking cock, then pulled back just enough to lick the flavor from the pad of his thumb.

Sherlock’s head slammed back against the refrigerator door and groaned in a wreck of pain and pleasure at the ache in his skull, the slide of his expensive black boxer briefs down his legs, John’s hot breath on his cock. He looked down, _had_ to take in the sight of the deadly John Watson, doctor, soldier, and furious whirlwind of barely-contained rage and adrenaline, kneeling on the floor of their kitchen with flushed cheeks, tented pants, and danger in his eyes.

Sherlock’s bare cock visibly twitched.

John grinned, and swallowed it down.

Sherlock’s shout echoed through the kitchen, the sound reflecting back at him in all its ragged desperation. He’d forgotten how loud he was in bed, and John-bloody-Watson was bringing it out in him in spades, reducing him to a panting-moaning-babbling mess with tongue and lips and hands all over his body. There was no subtlety, no teasing; John took Sherlock apart with single-minded determination, with long strokes of his entire mouth, his tongue working the underside of his cock with each pull in a rhythm that left Sherlock gasping, hovering on the blurry edge of awareness.

One of John’s hands splayed wide over Sherlock’s belly, dragging over muscle and tracing the lines of his hip bones, while the other dipped between his thighs. Sherlock’s brain tried to feed him anatomy charts, worked desperately to quantify how John unraveled him, until a finger pressed just behind his balls, gently at first, then harder. A rare curse dropped from Sherlock’s lips at the end of a ragged moan, and his brain shut down completely, abandoning the search for pleasure points and reasoning. Sherlock’s hands flew to John’s hair, his hips twitching forward in tiny, shallow thrusts, out of his control.

Sherlock _felt_ John grin around his cock, and wasn’t _that_ a novel experience?

John’s other hand disappeared from Sherlock’s stomach, and Sherlock immediately mourned the loss of contact—until both his arse cheeks were suddenly gripped tight and spread open, exposing him completely. _God_ , it was so dirty, made him feel so needy and desperate, and the pleasure burned low in his stomach, coiling tighter and tighter, right on the edge, until John pressed one finger directly over Sherlock’s entrance, _oh God_ —

Sherlock’s hips bucked forward and he came _hard_ , straight down John’s throat with a high, desperate cry. John hummed his pleasure and drank it all down, held him gently in his mouth as he came down from his orgasm, soothing Sherlock with long, gentle brushes over his thighs and stomach. Sherlock pried his eyes open and looked down at John in wonder, ran his hands over John’s flushed cheeks, over lips that grinned with wicked glee, through tousled hair that stuck up in clumps where it had been gripped. Absolutely stunning, unbelievably gorgeous, simply—

Sherlock grabbed a handful of John’s jumper and hauled him up to press their mouths together, pouring every ounce of his complete and utter happiness into the kiss. And in John’s mouth was the most unique of flavors: Sherlock, plus John… plus the lingering taste of Merlot.

_Delicious._

“I need to give you part two of your Christmas present _right now_ ,” Sherlock said, and dragged John to the bedroom, laughing the whole way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also hahahaha I completely forgot about the prompt in the process of writing this porn so please consider me your porny St. Nick bringing you Johnlock smut for the holidays. Short epilogue tomorrow, then we're done!


	17. Christmas Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you skipped the last chapter, all that happened other than smut was that John gave Sherlock a bottle of the same brand of scotch they drank on his stag night so they could have a do-over.

Sherlock woke on Christmas morning with his nose in sandy greying hair and a sleep-warm, pliant John in his arms. The mess of soft grey sheets cradled them in a cocoon of their mingled scents and body heat while John’s gentle, even breaths puffed against Sherlock’s neck. Bright morning light spilled through the window—after eight o’clock, by the positioning. Mummy and Father would be expecting their Christmas morning festivities, but the idea of leaving his current position was completely unappealing to Sherlock.

He closed his eyes and let himself drift, remembering the press of John’s lips and body, the strength of his arms, the gleam of joy in his eyes. His body pulled and ached in delicious ways with remembered pleasure from the night before, and Sherlock’s mouth tugged up at the corner of the memory of their first time. And the second. And the third. _Hmmmm._

Sherlock had just fallen into a light doze when a change in John’s breathing pulled him back to wakefulness. He inhaled deeply, memorizing the scent of early morning John hair, and drew John in closer.

“No.”

A laugh that was more breath than sound huffed against Sherlock’s chest. “Never thought I’d see the day,” John said, his voice scratchy. “Sherlock Holmes slept the night through, and now he doesn’t want out of bed.” He nuzzled into Sherlock’s clavicle and placed a light kiss on his collar bone. “Careful, or I might start to feel smug.”

Sherlock hid his grin in the pillow. “You have reason to feel smug. I’m cancelling Christmas. I see absolutely no reason to leave this bed.”

The sound and scent of sizzling bacon chose that moment to make themselves known, and Sherlock’s stomach gave a loud rumble. John barked a laugh and yanked Sherlock down for a good morning kiss.

“And hungry now, too! If I’d known a good shag would make you so compliant, I would have gotten my courage up a long time ago.”

“That’s not all you could have gotten up,” Sherlock grumbled, and disappeared under the covers. John gave a panicked yelp and scrabbled away, sending the sheets flying and the cold air of the room rushing into the bed.

“Your parents are out there, Sherlock!” John hissed, yanking the covers back over his chest. “Who do you think is cooking the bacon?”

“Don’t care,” Sherlock grumped. He flopped back on the bed beside John and curled his long form around him. “I want to stay here.”

“We’re not going to shag while your parents are out there,” John said, resolute. He put a hand under Sherlock’s chin and tipped his face up, then claimed his mouth in a long kiss. “But waking up next to you was the perfect start to this morning. I love you.”

Sherlock hummed against John’s lips, sinking into the feel of John’s mouth until his own ridiculous grin broke the kiss. “I love you, John.”

They smiled at each other for a quiet moment, then John leaned forward to press another kiss into Sherlock’s curls.

“I guess we have to get up and get this whole Christmas morning thing going, yeah? Mind if I borrow some PJ pants and a dressing gown?”

Sherlock sighed. “As much as I’d prefer you naked, I suppose seeing you in my clothes will be a satisfactory second option.”

After several minutes of bumping elbows while brushing teeth and fighting over dressing gowns, Sherlock and John met in front of the bedroom door. John leaned up to press a kiss against Sherlock’s waiting mouth and squeezed his hand.

“Ready?”

Sherlock grimaced. “No. Mummy will be revolting. Are you absolutely positive you wouldn’t rather stay here?”

John answered by opening the door and striding confidently into the sitting room. Sherlock followed, glaring.

“Happy Christmas, Mrs. Holmes,” John said, ducking into the kitchen to press a kiss against Mummy’s weathered cheek. She smiled a quiet, adoring smile and patted his cheek.

“Call me Mummy, dearest,” she said, and went back to poking at the bacon.

Father pressed a cup of coffee into John’s hands and clapped him on the shoulder. “Morning, son,” he said.

“Morning,” John replied cheerfully.

Sherlock growled.

The whole thing was so revoltingly, sickeningly normal and unassuming and completely indifferent to the drastic and glorious change in their lives. Sherlock didn’t want a fuss, but _some_ kind of acknowledgement at such a monumental, long-anticipated change in their lives would have been nice.

Then Mycroft arrived.

Sherlock’s sulk intensified.

“Good morning Mummy, Father,” Mycroft said, bending to kiss each of them on the cheek.

Mummy turned to eye him. “Did you bring it?”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied, drawing a small, wrapped package from his pocket. “Would you like it under the tree?”

“Please,” Mummy answered. She slid the bacon onto a plate, then turned to gesture to the assembled group. “Well, let’s get on with it! Christmas is starting! Let’s go!”

“But—” Sherlock started.

John cut him off with a gentle shove toward the sofa.

Paper ripped, bows unraveled, and gifts were admired, until everything had been opened save the tiny package from Mycroft’s pocket.

“What about that one?” Sherlock asked despite his foul mood, reluctant to speak or engage with the festivities in any beyond the required. He couldn’t believe that after all the build up, after all the supportive words and not-so-gentle encouragement, everyone seemed committed to ignoring the change in he and John’s relationship, but his curiosity over the package got the better of him.

John quirked an eyebrow. “What, you can’t deduce it?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but Mummy interrupted the impending rant with swift efficiency. “It’s a little last minute extra something for Mrs. Hudson, dear. Do reminder her to open it as soon as she gets home, will you? It’s quite an urgent gift.”

John’s eyebrows knitted together. “Urgent? But what could—”

Sherlock felt all the blood drain from his face. “John, no, don’t—”

“They’re earplugs, love,” Mummy said. “She’ll be needing them.”

And she patted Sherlock on his bright red flushed cheek.

“Now,” she continued, “champagne with breakfast, I think. A toast for our boys. What do you say, Father?”

“I say it’s an occasion worth toasting, my dear. Shall we?”

They tottered into the kitchen together, Mycroft trailing behind. Mycroft did turn around long enough, though, to raise an eyebrow at the two of them with something like an approving smile.

John grinned wickedly and pulled Sherlock to him “You _are_ pretty loud in bed. That was quite considerate of them.”

“Shut it, you.” Sherlock murmured, rubbing a thumb along John’s jaw line. “There’s a second bottle of that wine too, you know,”

John smiled. “Let’s save it. For a special occasion. I can think of lots of possibilities. Can’t you?”

Sherlock’s thoughts whirled with all the potential future occasions: first real date, first anniversary, engagement, wedding night, _God_. Would John want all that? With him?

Sherlock looked down into John’s shining eyes and thought, _yes_. Yes, absolutely, he would. He believed, would never doubt John again. Sherlock leaned down and captured John’s lips in a lingering, tender kiss, pouring every ounce of his years of waiting and wanting into every slide of their lips.

Years of possibilities ahead of them, and many more Christmases to come.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who has stuck with me through this fic, despite me finishing late! If anyone wants to help me go through it and actually edit/beta/britpick/etc., let me know! I’d like to polish it up for next Christmas.
> 
> I’m eternally grateful to everyone who left kudos and comments. You really made this a fun experience. I love you all!

**Author's Note:**

> Follow my shenanigans on tumblr: [librarylock](http://librarylock.tumblr.com).


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